


We Can See Who Laid the Fault Lines, But the City's Still Falling

by feverishsea



Series: To the East There Is a Mountain [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverishsea/pseuds/feverishsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin has never been good at chess, and there are only so many times that you can win by knocking the board over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, I couldn't leave you guys hanging for long! :)
> 
> I'm over here if you want to say hi: http://seatsreservedforheroes.tumblr.com/

Thorin has been more miserable than this. It is factually true, and even at the height of his misery as he trudges away from Bilbo’s door, he does not forget. He has found the bloated corpse of his brother’s body; has watched his grandfather die and his father turn tail like a gutless coward, only to die as well. He has seen expectant lust in men’s faces as they offered him coin they knew he could not afford to refuse. He has watched his boundaries pushed wider and wider as the luxury of choice ran out - a jerk with his hand, a mouth. He never let any of the men take him, but for better or worse Thorin knows now that he would sell every piece of himself away if he had to; if it was that or watch his kin starve. He has seen a kingdom turn to ash, and the face of betrayal as it turned from him.

He has lived through enough tragedy for a dozen lifetimes, and yet this one small loss still hurts. Thorin curses himself as pain grips him. No matter how many times he cares or trusts and is broken by it, he cannot seem to form the smallest callus over his heart; cannot seem to remember his hard-won lessons and only give his heart in measure.

The only comfort lies in duty. Gladly Thorin would rush after Bilbo; would let all else slip by in order to hold on to this one odd, imperfect thing that brings him joy. But he cannot. The dwarves who put their trust in him must always come before Thorin’s own desires. 

He was born too serious, he’s been told, even for a dwarf. _Your life will be one of many tragedies and few joys,_ Thranduil told him once before their thin friendship was severed forever. The elves see truth as a gift, no matter what it holds. Thorin had been young when he heard those words, and yet even then they rang true. _You will be alone among your kind; even your dour kin care for some merriment._

That was true as well; Thorin cared for his people and they respected him, but he did not make friends. He did not know how, and in any case they were a luxury he could ill afford. Over time he collected to him a small band (such a small band for a king; in the whole of dwarfkind, only eleven dwarves were willing to follow him) of loyal dwarves who loved him as their leader. But even they were not friends. Even old Balin and his nephews would not dream of confiding in him their private plans or family news.

Then he meets Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. When Thorin first meets the hobbit he is  so scornful of the soft little creature that later, when he knows better, he cannot bring himself to use that name anymore. He calls Bilbo by “halfling” and is silently delighted when the hobbit seems to enjoy the nickname, which only comes from Thorin’s lips. A few of the others try to use the name, but Bilbo scowls at them and says, “Bilbo’s fine, thank you.” When Thorin uses it, Bilbo smiles at him. 

It is perhaps a sad commentary on his life that those smiles are momentous enough for Thorin to remember every one. He doesn’t worry over it - there’s little enough happiness in this world, and less still for him. Thorin will gladly hoard all the small shining moments he can find and keep them in his memory.

It somehow becomes a delight to him when the halfling shows his worth. It is not so much because Thorin cares for him as it is that someone as worthy as the halfling cares for Thorin. And the halfling cared first. Thorin never forgets that. He cannot regret misjudging the hobbit, because in his darkest moments he can remember that a creature not of his kin, who Thorin had shown no favor to, was willing to die for him. That realization is the happiest moment of his life; that memory is his most treasured possession, beyond any of his armor or jewels.

So of course, because Thorin is weak and vain and greedy, he throws it all away chasing after the Arkenstone.

He gains his kingdom back when none thought he could do it, and it immediately goes to his head. He is sure that whatever he says must be right - after all, they’ve gotten this far under his command.

Thorin is wrong. He is already starting to realize it himself when Bilbo, always a step ahead, betrays him. 

Thorin had thought he loved the hobbit as much as it was possible for one body to love another. But on that day he discovers that he loves himself more. He dangles his halfling over a stone precipice by the throat. Voice stolen by his iron grip, Bilbo can only stare at him in terror, and somehow that fear angers Thorin further. 

Had he killed the halfling, Thorin would not have done anything so foolish as to off himself - he is the king, and his people need him - but he would have had to live with that act every day of his life, and so he is exceedingly grateful that he came to his senses in time.

“There is no hate quite like love betrayed,” Gandalf mumbles in the healer’s tent after the battle as Thorin lies there slowly bleeding to death.

“Is that meant to be comforting?” Thorin’s voice sounds even worse than the old wizard’s.

Gandalf scowls at him. “It is not,” he says. “If you die, that poor lad will never be the same again. He will believe he killed you.”

Thorin likes to think that if Gandalf had not said that, he still would have grudgingly allowed the elven healers to work on him, for the sake of his people. He likes to think that.

Before the elves begin their sneaky witchcraft on him Thorin asks to have Bilbo brought to the tent that he might apologize. 

The hobbit comes in stumbling on those overlarge feet of his; he is dusty and bloody and there is a stained bandage wrapped around his head. There is a grim expression on his face that Thorin has never seen there before; Bilbo Baggins now looks like he has faced war, got the best of it, and come out the other side sadder and wiser. In that moment he looks strong, even dangerous.

Bilbo takes one look at Thorin and bursts into tears.

Even now he is not sure how it happens, but Thorin reaches out and his halfling comes toward him without question. When Thorin awkwardly wraps his one functional arm around the small warm body and tugs it close, the halfling presses his face into Thorin’s chest and buries a hand in his grimy hair. 

Thorin is half-dead and every glancing touch is agony, but he presses Bilbo tighter against him, desperate for a few last scraps of affection he doesn’t deserve.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry. I did not - I would not - you did not deserve that; it was wrong of you, but my actions were the more wrong, please, know that I take back my words at the Gate.”

He is not sure how much of that he really gets out; at the sound of his halting voice Bilbo weeps harder and shakes his head so that dust-covered curls bounce against Thorin’s chin.

“Don’t talk, it’s fine,” the halfling sobs. “It’s past; please, Thorin, please don’t go to your forefathers. They don’t need you like we need you.”

Thorin laughs, or tries to, but his chest seizes up and long-fingered hands pull the halfling away from him. Thorin just manages to press a kiss to the crown of the halfling’s head before he is gone - or maybe he only thinks he does, because nobody ever mentions it.

When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Dwalin scowling. The second thing is the halfling, sleeping at the side of his cot.

As soon as Thorin gulps down water to wet his throat he croaks, “I do not…”

“I will not order him to leave,” Dwalin says, comfortingly obstinate. “He has earned the right to stay where he wishes.”

Thorin shakes his head. “I did not mean to ask it.”

Dwalin nods, but looks no more satisfied. “Then there is most likely nothing more you should say.”

“Are things so…” Thorin begins, imagining a horrifically precarious political situation awaiting him outside the tent.

Dwalin shakes his head, thankfully.

“It is no worse than it ought to be, and a little better than that. My brother is as good as a king himself, Ori deals well with the Men, and your little lad here is oddly beloved by the elves.”

Thorin lifts his lip in an instinctive sneer. Dwalin looks grave.

“He went begging for you,” Dwalin says in a low voice. “He went among the elves and pled your case; brought them back one by one to help you.”

“Half- Master Baggins must have told them quite the tale,” Thorin says weakly, trying to process this all at once in his illness-addled mind.

Dwalin’s eyes narrow. “Do you know what the elves said to me when I asked?” Thorin just looks at him. “They told me that they did not believe a word of it, but they could not stand for their little friend to be heartbroken should you die.”

Thorin’s gut twists. He isn’t sure if it’s pleasure or pain.

Dwalin leans closer, voice still low, one eye on Bilbo’s sleeping form. “So I find myself needing to ask you, Thorin… what exactly does Bilbo Baggins think he is to you?”

It is too much all at once. He has just awoken after days… weeks…? His body aches worse than it did at the edge of death, and his head is throbbing in a way that makes it difficult to think. He does not even know if all his company are safe, and yet this is important enough for Dwalin to throw at him before he’s barely awake.

Thorin is hardly himself yet, but he sees Dwalin’s fingers thrumming against his axe and knows that it spells danger for Bilbo should Thorin give the wrong answer. 

It is not that Dwalin is evil or cruel. But there are rules, and their kind is a great believer in these rules. There are tales of elves and men and wizards all mingling their blood together, but none of dwarves doing the like. If Thorin were to indulge in such a thing, the least of the consequences would be the loss of his crown and the shame of his entire family. Without a leader their newborn kingdom would divide itself into factions and collapse.

To Dwalin, the life of one small hobbit is nothing compared to the security of the kingdom. Truthfully, Dwalin is right.

That does not meant Thorin will allow the halfling to be touched so long as he draws breath. Thorin loves Dwalin like a brother. But if Dwalin hunts the halfling, Thorin will kill him.

“You should be kinder to him,” Thorin scolds, feeling what little energy he has ebb away into the charade. He never was a good actor. “The poor creature is alone farther from home than he knew existed, and he has obviously taken to us as family. How are my nephews?”

He pretends not to see Dwalin’s shoulders sag in relief; pretends not to notice when Dwalin sets the axe aside. Soon he is too grateful for the Company’s miraculous escape to even dwell on the halfling… much.

Slowly his wounds heal and the very barest foundation of a kingdom rises around him. One day he goes to stand and realizes that he can. It is time for him to assume the throne once again.

His knees buckle; he falls back into the chair. How can he stride back into the center of things and take over, when he has shown so clearly that he is in every way unfit to be their leader?

Thorin is wrathful and prideful and stubborn as a mule, but he is at least under few illusions about the quality of his leadership. In moments of crisis he makes the decisions that he would make for himself - brave decisions, but foolish ones. A leader should be able to plan and strategize and account for every strength. Thorin has never been good at chess, and there are only so many times that you can win by knocking over the board.

Only these few dwarves of his Company were loyal and foolhardy enough to follow him, and he has rewarded them by nearly killing them all a dozen times over. They have only been saved by the hobbit he ridiculed, who is now in danger, again, because of Thorin.

It is the halfling who finally rouses him from his despair; it is the halfling at his back when his words run dry. Of course it is. When Thorin feels as though his footsteps are so heavy that he will sink into the mountain and disappear, the halfling reaches out a hand and smiles at him, though Thorin does not deserve it. 

Thorin has never cared for anything but his duty; has never spent a moment attempting to be likable. He knows that he is hardly a diverting companion. Thorin is brooding and sullen and cannot hold a conversation to save his life. Thorin knows this, because Bilbo tells him these things. And yet, it was also Bilbo who sobbed at his deathbed like his heart was already broken, who told him in a broken voice _And yet I love you best_ , Bilbo who reached out to touch Thorin’s face like you would touch some beautiful, fragile, easily broken thing.

Thorin is not a remarkably subtle dwarf, but even he can understand that this means Bilbo sees enough good in him to make up for his many faults. Thorin suspects the halfling suffers from a lack of good judgement (he associates with elves after all), but the disinterested affection Bilbo offers is the only of its kind Thorin has ever received, and it soothes him like nothing else ever has.

All these things the halfling does for him, and Thorin is still too selfish to let him go.

He does not expect the reckoning when it comes. The kingdom is almost quiet, busy rebuilding itself. Dain’s interest has subsided as Erebor has proved that it can thrive under Thorin’s rule. Relations with the Men are as good as they will be, and relations with the elves are better than that.

So Thorin is not prepared when Dwalin bursts into his private rooms without knocking.

“I did not realize I had invited you in,” he says, irritated. He shifts a stack of parchment aside so that he can glare at Dwalin properly.

Dwalin barely seems to hear him. He storms across the room and slams his hands down on Thorin’s desk, which is farther than even he has gone before, very nearly a threat. Thorin bolts to his feet and fists his hands ready at his sides.

“This ends now,” Dwalin snarls, and for a moment Thorin honestly does not know what he speaks of. Then Dwalin glares at him, and looking into those dark eyes Thorin realizes that this day has always been coming, maybe since the minute he stepped foot in the Shire, pain nipping at pleasure’s heels and demanding payment in double.

Dwalin seems to remember himself a little and steps back, but he does not back down. “This cannot continue, Thorin. I am wading through rumors like a bed of ash. There’s talk of gifts, and secret meetings in the shadows, and he is encouraging the young dwarves to mingle with elves.”

“Those things are not his fault,” Thorin replies, though immediately after he knows it to be unwise. Dwalin’s scowl sets firm.

“I did not say they were his fault, yet here they are, and if Master Baggins is gone then these things will disappear with him. He must go, Thorin. If you cannot do it, I will.”

Before Thorin can help himself he snarls at Dwalin and lunges across the desk. But he’s not the dwarf he was before the great battle. Dwalin easily avoids his reach and Thorin does not follow through, knowing he will lose the fight and likely forfeit something only just healed. The arts of the elves are undeniably effective, but the healing throughout his body feels frail, as though the elves are mocking him even with their gifts. He will never be able to forget these wounds, or how they were mended.

“So it is true,” Dwalin says. The disgust stays in his eyes and does not reach his plain voice. Thorin is not sure if it is shock or a concession.

“I care for the halfling. We all do. He has become a friend. Nothing more has happened between us than that,” Thorin says, stripped down to the truth, too weary to lie.

Dwalin nods. “I believe you,” he says, and there is a note of the old bond in it. Then his eyes harden again. “But if you could, you would have more of him.”

“I… have not thought of that,” Thorin tells his old friend. It is mostly true. Some thoughts are too risky to dwell on.

Dwalin’s lip curls and he bangs a hand on the desk. “By Durin’s beard and everything you would betray, just admit it!”

“It cannot be, so why does it matter?” Thorin shouts back. He hates confronting his despair; he would rather set it away forever or chase it into the very mouth of a dragon to fight it.

The anger suddenly seems to abandon Dwalin, leaving the doughty old warrior’s face sad and tired. Dwalin is a good, honest dwarf who has never asked for more than to be told where to point his axe. Thorin wishes desperately that the world had been kind enough to allow Dwalin to be remain uncomplicated; to make every decision in black and white. He watches Dwalin close his eyes and heave a huge sigh, armor surging over his breast.

“Because as long as you lie to yourself, you excuse your actions. You feign friendship while only you believe the falsehood.” Dwalin looks sick, and Thorin has to fight the urge to wrap an arm around the dwarf’s shoulders and reassure him, make all the promises he wants to hear. Dwalin backs away toward the door. “End it, Thorin, or I will, because by the Valar one of us has to. This kingdom has barely taken root in the ground. Do not allow it to be washed out to shore like rubble because we cannot stand together with our kin. Elves and men and hobbits will not carry us on their shoulders. If Erebor divides itself into chaos, our foundation will slip into the river and we will all be carried downstream again, to beg and whore and scrape our livings out of the ashes of men’s forges.

I swore to protect you, and I will protect you even from yourself.” The last thing Thorin sees before Dwalin slips out the door is the glint of candlelight on chainmail.

The stone door creaks shut. Thorin lets his head fall forward so that he stares down at the desk, though he does not see it.

Instead he sees his choices. He can allow the halfling to die. He can kill one who is as a brother to him. Or he can let Bilbo Baggins go, to seek a less dangerous fate. A better fate. Perhaps one that is not filled with hardship, and has no regrets.

Unbidden, words that his grandfather once spoke flit into his mind: _Power is a trap, lad. The more you have, the more tightly shackled to it you are, until one day you realize you can do nothing but sit and watch the world go by._

Thorin has small fondness left for his grandfather, but he cannot dismiss the words from his head as he leaves the room to make the only choice he has.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge delay, guys! I've had some health issues. Hopefully the next chapter will come quicker :)

It takes at least a half hour after Thorin leaves his rooms for Bilbo to rush from his bed to the washbasin and throw up. Agony hits him suddenly, as if it is a surprise, and all he can hear is, _you were never made to walk in the mountain_ , over and over again in his head like a drum.

Even while he stands at the washbasin gasping for air and feeling as though the pain will kill him, Bilbo is thinking how very ridiculous he must look. He is short and hairy and stocky with a personality plain as dirt. There is nothing the least bit heroic about him. He cannot get away with such torrents of silly emotion.

And yet here he is. Here they all are.

How he manages to get to sleep that night he isn’t quite sure, but when he wakes up he feels as though he is in a fog. Silently he washes his face, dresses, and wanders out into the halls.

The mountain does not seem especially beautiful to him this morning. It still looks like dull stone to him. But he brushes his hand along it anyway, and the thought that he will no longer be able to wonder what Thorin sees in it makes him ache.

He skips breakfast and goes instead to the library. Ori is easily found back in the stacks of books, busily sorting parchment. He looks surprised when he catches sight of Bilbo.

“Mr Baggins! Hello!” Ori cries, and drops something. “Oh, drat. I’m surprised to see you here! Did you… need some papers?”

Bilbo settles down in a chair and smiles wryly. “In a manner of speaking. Ori, do you happen to know how I might send a message to Gandalf?”

Ori’s big eyebrows shoot up.

“Mr Gandalf? My goodness, I don’t quite… Well, you could send a raven, I suppose. I’ve no doubt Thorin will…”

“No,” Bilbo interrupts, before he can stop himself. “No Thorin.”

Ori’s eyebrows settle. He sits down.

“Oh, I see,” he says.

Bilbo feels his own eyebrows rise. “Do you?” he asks, too worn out to feel much emotion about it.

The dwarf across the desk bobs his head.

“I think so,” he says. “King Thorin is rather, er… difficult.”

That makes Bilbo laugh a little; it comes out as a huff of tired air.

“Thorin isn’t exactly the problem. It’s more, well, me.”

Ori looks surprised. “What? You?”

A smile that feels unfamiliar curves over Bilbo’s mouth. He wants to laugh again, but can’t seem to find the energy.

“Yes, me. Come now, Ori, it can’t be that much of a surprise. Surely you’ve heard rumors about the troublesome hobbit, stirring up relations between the races?”

He swears Ori blushes.

“Oh,” Ori says. “Yes, I can see how that might be a problem. Did Dwalin, er, talk to you, then?”

Bilbo blinks. “What?”

Ori starts stammering and flails around the desk a little with his too-long arms. He hits more parchment, and sends it tumbling. “Oh, whoops, let me just clean that -”

He’s doing all sorts of things he doesn’t expect to these days; before he even has time to think it over Bilbo jumps to his feet and grabs Ori’s arm.

“What do you mean?” he says, his voice so hard he doesn’t recognize it. “Tell me, Ori, now.”

Ori stammers, but Bilbo grips his arm harder and a confused stammer about threats and Dwalin and Thorin and impropriety eventually comes out.

When Bilbo lets go, Ori rubs his arm. Bilbo barely notices as he sinks back into his seat.

“So… it’s not… Thorin,” Bilbo says. He doesn’t even know what he thinks about all this; it feels as though his mind has stalled. 

Ori nods reluctantly. When he speaks, he sounds a little resentful. “No, Master Baggins, not Thorin. Why would King Thorin want to send you away? He loves you.”

Bilbo chokes and starts coughing.

Ori continues, oblivious. “In any case, when are you leaving, Mr Baggins?”

“L-leaving?” Bilbo manages. It’s surprising, and somewhat frightening, how quickly his thoughts have jumped course.

Ori shrugs.

“If King Thorin isn’t willing to fight for you, he’s not worthy of you,” Ori says, as though it’s all very obvious. Bilbo supposes it is, for dwarves. “So, would you like me to find out about that message to Gandalf.”

Bilbo stands up. “Wait on that,” he says. His voice is finally back to normal, though he doesn’t feel like himself, not quite. He feels determined.

Ori scrunches his face up in confusion, but Bilbo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone; striding out of the library and down the halls, past Fili’s greeting, ignoring Tauriel’s thoughtful stare. He stops himself from running, but only just.

He doesn’t pause when he reaches Thorin’s rooms. He throws out his hand and shoves open the door.

Thorin doesn’t quite have a weapon in hand when Bilbo walks into the room. He’s not completely healed, Bilbo notes in the back of his mind, with some regret. He’ll never know if begging the elves for help was the right choice. Elven magic does not work its best on dwarves, Gandalf told him later. But, like so many of his choices, there is no use mourning it now.

He slams the door shut behind him, not bothering to watch his back. When he turns again to see Thorin, there is no weapon in his hand; the dwarven king is simply waiting.

“I have never known you to be bullied by Dwalin before,” Bilbo says. It’s only after that he properly notes the shirt pooled on the floor. His gaze drags heavily across Thorin’s thick-muscled chest and broad shoulders. He swallows hard.

A sigh heaves Thorin’s shoulders up and down. Bilbo finds it difficult to drag his eyes away to Thorin’s grim face.

“Someone has been telling tales,” Thorin says. He starts to reach toward the floor.

“Stop, I’ll get it,” Bilbo says, and hurries over. This time he feels the brush of warm breath that’s Thorin’s sigh across his neck as he stoops down to grab the shirt in a clumsy hand.

“Are my wounds so obvious?”

Bilbo straightens up and finds himself staring at Thorin’s chest again, now close enough that he’s horribly tempted to touch. He forces himself to look up, but it’s no better; Thorin’s eyes are impossibly deep and blue, and he cannot look away from them either.

He’s so incredibly lost; he’s ruined. He doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it until this moment.

“No. They are... you are... I…” Bilbo says, and doesn’t let himself get any further. He pushes himself up on tiptoe, touches Thorin’s cheek to angle the dwarf’s head down, and then he can feel how chapped and rough Thorin’s lips are, can taste the little inhale of breath Thorin gives, hears himself make a horrible desperate noise when their mouths press together, come apart, and come back together again.

By the time Bilbo can notice it Thorin’s big hand is on the back of his head, threading fingers through his hair. His other hand is at Bilbo’s waist, pulling him upward, crushing him against Thorin’s chest. Bilbo wishes his shirt was gone, wishes all their clothes were gone, wishes the kingdom was gone.

His thoughts jerk on reality, and Thorin seems to follow suit, because that’s when Thorin pulls just a few inches away, breath ragged.

“This - I - we- cannot…” Bilbo is nodding in agreement, but Thorin seems to be in disagreement with himself, because his words cut off with a growl and he yanks Bilbo against him again, and they tumble onto the bed.

A few minutes later Bilbo is underneath Thorin and whining like a whore when Thorin growls again against his lips and pushes himself up onto all fours.

“No!” he thunders, which would sound terrifying if Bilbo cared at all right now. “This is only going to make things harder!”

Bilbo fights the urge to glance down. “I believe we’re already there,” he mumbles.

Thorin eyes him with that “you’re being ludicrous” look that Bilbo just knows he thinks is intimidating, and then pushes himself over to the side and rolls onto his back. Bilbo hates him _so much._

“I am serious, Halfling,” Thorin groans, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I didn’t want…”

Bilbo props himself up on an elbow and glares. “Yes, about that. I think I’m rather done with what you want.”

Thorin stills and then pulls one hand away from his eye to peek at Bilbo. It’s strange and strangely endearing, but Bilbo refuses to be distracted.

“What do you mean?” Thorin asks, his voice still rough. That is distracting too.

But Bilbo plows on ahead.

“I mean that you cannot just send me away because Dwalin finds my presence displeasing,” Bilbo says, and then stumbles over what that really means. He finds himself leaning away from Thorin, looking the dwarf over, wondering how much dignity he can lose before he simply fades away. “I mean… if you truly do care what he thinks so much… it is just… I thought…”

Both of Thorin’s hands raise off his face, which has turned serious. He rolls onto his side and throws an arm over Bilbo, trapping him. Bilbo could cry with relief over the anxiety on Thorin’s face.

“No, hold a moment,” Thorin says, perhaps as close to pleading as he can come. He pushes his supporting arm closer to Bilbo so that he can raise his fingers and stroke the backs of them over Bilbo’s cheek. “Hang Dwalin; this is not a matter of opinion. This is a matter of the kingdom. And your safety.”

“Hang my safety,” Bilbo says softly. It’s impossible to stay fierce when Thorin is touching him so softly. Even Thorin’s softness is harsh; his fingers press a little too hard for comfort. But Bilbo turns his face into it anyway. He wants Thorin’s love, no matter how much it hurts.

“I can’t,” Thorin says, simple and final. Even Bilbo cannot argue with that tone, and he knows it.

He scoots forward under Thorin’s arm and puts his head under Thorin’s chin, pressing his face into Thorin’s neck. He feels Thorin freeze and then slowly, hesitantly curl around him.

“Let me try to fix this,” Bilbo says, not even sure Thorin will hear it muffled against his skin. “If I could make this possible - just this, nothing… more, I cannot make miracles - if I could do it, would you want it?” _Would you want me_ , he does not quite ask.

Thorin says nothing for a moment, and then his grip tightens. Bilbo takes that as a yes.

“I should take my leave,” he mutters unwillingly. “Someone will come for you soon.”

Thorin’s arms tighten again; Bilbo can barely breathe.

“I can’t,” Thorin says, sounding almost panicked. “I will not have this again.”

With no small effort (mental and physical) Bilbo pushes himself away to look Thorin in the eye.

“You will have it again. This will not be the last time we are together,” Bilbo promises. Thorin does not quite look as though he believes Bilbo, but he looks as though he desperately wants to.

Now Bilbo just has to keep his promise. Thorin's life has had too much tragedy in it, and Bilbo does not delude himself that the loss of one small hobbit would count for much. But Bilbo - well, he's not used to tragedy, and he refuses to accept it for either of them.


	3. Chapter 3

Kili slips into his rooms like a plague, or some otherwise bloody nuisance. Thorin’s hands are still trembling. He can still taste the Halfling on his tongue. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s sitting on, but he thinks it’s the fireplace. It is not comfortable.

“Hullo, Uncle!” Kili sings out, relentlessly cheerful as always. Thorin growls and sighs at once; Kili just rolls his eyes. He’s never been Thorin’s favorite and he knows it. The fact that he doesn’t mind - in fact, seems to like Thorin more for liking Fili more - is further proof of how exasperating his younger nephew is.

Unfortunately, even rock notices an earthquake; after a moment of shuffling through papers on Thorin’s desk, Kili turns and looks quizzically at Thorin.

“Something’s odd,” Kili says. He frowns. “Did you do something you oughtn’t? You’re looking rather… winded.”

“I never do things I oughtn’t, unlike some dwarves I know,” Thorin lies, and stumps across the room to his chair. He sits down heavily. “What in Durin’s name do you want?”

Kili is still frowning. “You’re very bad-tempered today,” he remarks. “Well, you’re always bad-tempered, but strangely so right now. You usually wait to find out what I’ve done to jump down my throat.”

A small pang of regret hits Thorin. He’s never been gentle with anything he loves. He would be if he could, but he never learned and cannot seem to grasp the art now. There were bruises streaked across the halfling’s arms when he left Thorin’s rooms. None of the few things that love him back seem to mind, or expect any different of him, and it makes Thorin regret it the more.

“I apologize,” he says stiffly. “What did you want?”

Kili blinks at him and Thorin curses himself. He doesn’t apologize often, either.

“Are you alright, Uncle,” Kili asks, his face shifting quickly from humor to concern. Thorin doesn’t know how to handle concern for himself, unless it’s the Halfling’s quiet worry that manifests mostly as scolding.

“Yes, quite well, now tell me what you want.”

Kili is still eyeing him, but reluctantly says, “The elves must take their leave, and I wondered if I might accompany them on a diplomatic…”

“No.”

Kili’s thick eyebrows pull in tight. “No?” he asks, in a razor-thin voice. “So quickly as that? You see no possible advantage to this?”

“None worth the risk.” Thorin shuts a sheaf of papers authoritatively. He has no idea what their contents are.

“What risk?” Kili scoffs. “I’m the spare, Fili will be safe and sound all shut up happily in the mountain, and I hardly think the elves are going to murder me in my sleep. I’m the only one around here other than Balin and Bilbo that can talk; I may be able to actually treat with Thranduil, or at least his advisors. There is no risk.”

Thorin tries to shut away the clank of Dwalin’s chainmail from his memory. “There is risk, and too much of it,” he says firmly. “We do not consort with the outside world more than is absolutely necessary for our survival.”

It’s a mistake; he knows it before the words are out of his mouth and Kili is giving a derisive snort. He’s a good-tempered lad, this nephew, but even Kili has a typical dwarf’s blade-sharp tongue when he’s angered.

“Oh, yes, Uncle, do tell me all about how we mustn’t stray from our kind. How is Bilbo, by the way? When was he last here? An hour ago?” Kili snaps, uncomfortably close to the truth.

Thorin shifts in his seat and sets his jaw. “Enough, Kili,” he grinds out, wondering when his nephews became so willful, and when they stopped fearing him. He cannot resent it; Thorin doesn’t have much respect for himself either. He lost it long ago in the dust of the mountain and the shadow of the gate.

Kili barks out a laugh. “Enough? Very well, then, Uncle. Tell me when you will have had enough of our hobbit. When you - ”

Thorin jumps to his feet and slams his palms onto his desk, sending papers flying. “Enough!” he roars. Kili blinks and tilts his head to the side, looking sadly unintimidated.

“Hmm. Really?” he says, which is nonsense to Thorin’s ears. “Good for Bilbo. Bad idea though, Uncle, honestly. I’m surprised at least one of you doesn’t have more - well, no, I’m not.”

Thorin scrubs his face over with his palm. “Enough of your rambling,” he grimaces. “Get out. I’ve no patience for your fooling this evening.”

He catches sight of Kili’s quick grin through his fingers. “You’ve patience enough for Bilbo’s - ”

“I said out!”

But Kili is not Fili; is ever wild and never malicious for long. He settles down into a chair and keeps grinning up at Thorin, though his expression shifts so there’s something thoughtful and earnest behind it.

“What are you going to do about the traditionalists, though? I mean, nobody will approve, but Bilbo is useful enough by half, so a fair number wouldn’t fight it if we kept him. But some…”

“Yes, some,” Thorin says, unable to stop seeing Dwalin’s grim, resigned face in the back of his mind. He sits back down in his chair. For a moment he and his nephew stare at each other in mutual hopeless frustration, for a moment on level ground, understanding each other perfectly. It’s strange and surreal to Thorin, who can still remember Kili shivering in the snow, not even big enough to work a bellows, mostly a mop of dark hair and dark eyes insisting in a tiny voice that he had to help Fili work.

Kili hums and leans back to stare up at the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs. “Well,” he says, “I can honestly tell you I’ve got no idea what’s up Bilbo’s sleeve right now, but doubtless something’s there.”

Thorin jumps a little and tries to hide it. _This will not be the last time_ _. I swear it._ The Halfling had left not even a full hour ago; there’s no chance that Kili could know more than him - or…

“How do you know?” Thorin asks, sounding more suspicious than he meant to and less so than he feels.

Kili doesn’t answer for a moment, just glares at Thorin and rolls his eyes.

“Honestly, Uncle,” he shakes his head. Thorin refuses to wince. “No, I just know Bilbo, and quite frankly, Uncle, I don’t need to know him to know that he’s putting the whole of his devious mind to work at staying here. I’ve seen him look at you.”

“That’s absurd,” Thorin brushes off, and casts his eyes away. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He wants to have this conversation and he doesn’t; wants to pretend none of this exists and wants to hear it confirmed by everyone he knows that the Halfling cares for him.

He hears Kili sigh; knows his nephew is shaking his head by the sound of his beads clacking.

“It’s not, but in any case I know little about it, so I’ll leave it be for now. What’s more pressing is the alternative. What if Bilbo fails?”

“Fails?” Thorin blinks and turns his head back around to see Kili looking grave.

Kili nods. “Aye, it could happen, clever though our - the - Burglar is. And what happens if he does? Will your heart stiffen again until you turn to stone, and fade away into the mountain?”

Thorin’s chest feels tight. Blasted elven magic, burning at him from inside.

“Because we may have been busy and injured, but I think none of us have forgotten how it was when you gave up on yourself,” Kili continues, and Thorin’s throat is closed, so that he can’t even interrupt. “You’ve let Bilbo get in close enough to thaw you, which I didn’t think you ever would, and I’ll have to apologize to him sometime for being wrong about that. But honestly, Uncle…” Thorin forces himself to meet Kili’s worried gaze. “…You cannot go away again. We cannot afford it. The kingdom cannot afford it.”

And Thorin cannot promise Kili anything, though he hates himself for it.

“Uncle,” Kili says, half a plea and half a command.

The Halfling smells like sunlight and tastes the way gold feels; he is strange and unexpected and only near him does Thorin forget the taste of bitter ash in his mouth.

With a sigh Kili pushes himself out of his chair and with one last sad look, takes his leave.

He is weak and petty and wrong-headed, but at least, Thorin comforts himself, he is not a liar.

 


End file.
